


What About All the Broken Happy Ever Afters

by blueeyesandpie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse (Supernatural), Blow Jobs, Castiel and Dean Winchester Use Their Words, Fallen Angel, First Time Blow Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Drug Abuse, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Recreational Drug Use, Semi-Public Sex, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:49:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28177920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueeyesandpie/pseuds/blueeyesandpie
Summary: It's 2010. Sam said yes to Lucifer, it's looking like the Croatoan virus is going to wipe out the planet, and Dean just wants to fucking forget. A bit of ecstasy and an underground rave seems like as good a way to manage it.Dean should know by now that no happiness is forever, but for tonight? Tonight he's gonna have a good time. Especially once Cas shows up.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 16
Kudos: 86
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	What About All the Broken Happy Ever Afters

**Author's Note:**

> Hi friends!
> 
> I do not want to tag this dubcon because in my opinion it is decidedly not. However, I wanted to acknowledge that some people may see it that way and give them a chance to dip out before they get too deep. If you're willing to risk it, however...I promise all sexual activity is enthusiastically consensual despite the drugs, and I explicitly confirm it as such toward the end of the fic. 
> 
> Also, Jad gave this fic a run through before I posted it (since it's her fault I wrote it at all), but it was more to make sure it hit the right emotional beats than to check for grammar. Thus—any errors you find are my own damn fault.
> 
> Enjoy!

Dean’s at some underground rave doing his best to forget exactly how fucked the world is in the year of our Lord twenty-ten. 

He’s blinded by flashing lights, deafened by a wall of electronic music, and surrounded by a churning mass of half-naked strangers. Sometimes they look at him, at the layers he wears like a shield against their scrutiny, but their eyes are vacant and their smiles empty, their brains so blown on coke and ecstasy he doubts they’ll remember he exists tomorrow.

That’s fine with him. He’s probably giving them the same blank smile and doesn’t even realize it, so who is he to judge? There’s an acrid taste on his tongue, too, his mouth watering like mad. The bass drops a few minutes later and Dean feels it to his bones. This DJ, whoever she is, is fucking _fantastic_ at building a river of sound; with ecstasy in his veins, that guidance is all Dean needs to lose himself completely. 

He spins in a circle, arms outspread, and a bunch of people nearby dodge out of the way. The heavy air in the warehouse flows around him like syrup and he leans into it, laughing. He can feel his socks cradling his feet, his shoes cushioning them from damage. The seam of his pants is an intriguing presence up the side of his leg and his boxers hug his junk, providing constant reminder that touch would feel good right about now. His shirt is sweat-damp against his chest and even the chill is delightful. 

The beat starts to build toward another drop and he bounces in time, rubs his hands over his own forearms, over his elbows, up to his shoulders. He traces the column of his neck with feather-light touch, fingers splayed beneath his chin and turning his face to the heavens. 

He’s floating in a field of lines and dots, a swirl of color and light that grabs him by the balls and drags the breath out of him. He folds his lip between his teeth, sucking on it mindlessly as he stares up at the display of beauty. Moving is suddenly too much to stomach, so he stops short and simply stares, drinking it in.

 _Would make for a great last night on Earth._ He chuckles at the thought. This ain’t quite it, but someday, maybe, if he knows the end is coming, he could go out like this and it wouldn’t be so bad. The only way it could be more perfect is if—

“You smell good,” Dean says without taking his eyes off the light show above him. He couldn’t say whether Cas is wearing cologne or if his hopped up senses are just better able to smell the bastard’s natural aroma, but he’s drowning in heavy spice and okay _now_ the night is perfect.

Cas isn’t supposed to be there, of course, but that hardly matters. He _is_ here, and Dean’s chest is full to bursting. In that moment he knows he’d sell his soul to Hell all over again, give up on the Apocalypse and everything else, if it meant Cas never left his side again. 

When Cas neither moves closer nor responds to his comment, Dean reluctantly drops his hands to his sides and lowers his chin to look at his friend. _Good idea,_ his mind tells him helpfully.

If God didn’t create Castiel to suit Dean’s wildest dreams, then he surely formed Dean’s wildest dreams to fit Castiel. It’s a chicken and egg situation, really, it doesn’t matter which is cause and which is effect because the end result is the same. The person standing in front of him is devastating, and Dean thinks it’s a damn shame he’s never told him so. 

Cas chose to go without the trench coat tonight, Dean realizes. He changed his entire get up, actually, not that that’s terribly unusual these days. Tonight he set suit and tie aside for a soft cotton shirt and wide-bottomed pants that Dean’s never seen before but immediately likes. Cas is more vulnerable this way, more human. More...touchable, and that might be a problem, really, because God. fucking. _Damn_. 

“No wonder all those Renaissance artists were so damn horny all the time,” he comments before he can convince himself not to, running the back of his crooked finger over Cas’s jawline. “I’m surprised they could keep it in their pants long enough to paint or sculpt or whatever with all you heavenly fucks wandering around to distract them.” 

“If you had seen my true form before—” Cas cuts himself off, gently pushing Dean’s hand away from his face. “If you knew me in my natural state you wouldn’t think so.” He’s got that weird half smile he uses sometimes when he thinks Dean won’t notice that his feelings are on his sleeve, and Dean’s heart does a painful double-tap in his chest at the thought. 

_I notice, Cas. I notice every damn time. I’m just a chicken shit, okay? I’m just scared._

“I would,” he says stubbornly, and oh no, he forgot that ecstasy makes him _talk_ , his carefully constructed walls crumbling like sugar in the rain. The words are coming whether he wants them to or not. “I would have. I do. You’re fucking amazing, Cas. Always thought so, dumbass. I miss- miss-” He stumbles and stammers and gives up. Instead he reaches out, grabs Cas’s hand and slaps it, awkward and too heavy, against the spot where he’d been grabbed on his express train ride out of hell courtesy of Castiel, Angel of the Lord.

Even through layers of fabric both thick and thin, there’s a palpable shock when Cas’s palm connects with Dean’s shoulder. He thinks every light in the room surges brighter for half a breath, before sputtering back to normal luminescence, but it could as easily be the drugs playing tricks on him.

Warmth travels through Dean’s body in waves, however, sparking every ecstatic nerve higher until he’s suddenly afraid he might come in his pants like a teenager from— _one touch. Jesus Christ Dean, get it together!_

“You don’t mean that,” Cas says, but there’s something _off_ about his voice—a little too high, a little too fast—and his hand doesn’t move. His fingers curl, even, pressing closer to Dean’s skin as if seeking comfort.

Dean blinks rapidly, forcing himself to focus on Cas’s face. He’s staring at Dean through the blue-white pall of a fog machine and hundreds of pin lights. His eyes are glassy and a little too wide, pupils blown unnaturally large; his lips are parted, tongue poking out a little as if he’s forgotten what it’s for. He’s bouncing a little, too, his body unconsciously moving with the music around them. 

Understanding blooms inside Dean’s chest. 

“You’re just as fucked up as I am.” Dean laughs, giddy and high as he reaches for Cas once more. He gets him by the chin, turns his head back and forth to examine the goosebumps pebbling his skin where they touch and how his hair curls and sticks in the sheen of sweat that matches Dean’s own.

There’s nothing in Baby’s trunk that could hit an angel this hard, not anymore anyway, but Dean’s too damn high himself to think about it too much. Not when Cas is loose in his grip, easy and soft and vulnerable. “You stupid son of a bitch,” Dean says, but the words hold no heat, his tone as affectionate as he can manage while speaking over blasting dubstep. “Why’d you do it?”

Cas’s head rolls back and forth between Dean’s hands and Dean feels him begin to hum, a stupid, gummy smile the likes of which Dean has never seen before spreading across his face. They’re drifting closer, ever closer, and Dean’s in no state to stop it.

“I wanted,” Cas interrupts himself with a short chuckle that seems more sarcastic than amused, “No, not that. Nevermind. You said you wanted to bang a few gongs before you go out. Remember saying that before you took off earlier?” There’s a note of accusation there; Dean flinches away from it. “I thought: why not join you? I will always come when you call, and we both know you’re going to, so here I am.” 

Dean opens his mouth to object, but Cas shakes his head with a smile. Besides, the music drops again and he gets to watch Cas’s body swaying in time as he rides the waves, and that’s infinitely better than arguing about why Cas is there at all.

“You’re so beautiful,” Cas says out of nowhere, a few minutes later. “Still so beautiful, and you don’t give a single shit, do you? All you see in the mirror is failure and damnation.” He inhales sharply, his free hand wiggling between them to press, fingers splayed, against Dean’s chest. “You don’t see what I see, Dean, and it’s going to destroy me.” 

“I’m not—” Dean’s throat is too thick to properly form words, his mind too busy with the sensation of Cas’s body against his own to process anything else. “Whatever,” he concedes, helpless to object any further just then. He can’t get enough of Cas’s skin beneath his hands, the burn of stubble against his fingers, the faint pulse of blood flow beneath his palms. His own heart is pounding a mile a minute, hitching every time Cas’s breath mists against his skin. 

Cas’s hands are all over him now, moving, exploring, gentle but inexorable, leaving streaks of heat and chill in their wake by turns. Fingers ghost over his face, brush his lips, trace his nose and brows and jaw. Dean’s eyes flutter shut and Cas even runs his fingers lightly over his eyelashes. 

It’s a display of intimacy Dean had never thought to give or receive again. It would be intoxicating sober, let alone rolling so hard he can’t tell which way is up. The only thing holding him back from flinging caution to wind is experience, the knowledge that they won’t be high forever. He and Cas are in the rapids leading to a drop; once they’re over there’s no coming back and he’s so scared of fucking it up he wants to cry. 

Their faces are an inch apart, hovering in that liminal space between action and inaction, when he finally gets his shit together enough to say something. 

“Cas,” he says. It’s the last, desperate gasp of a man about to raise the biggest white flag in the history of white flags. “Cas, you’re high as shit right now. Remember when we fought Famine? Remember how you wanted to eat and eat and eat, even if it killed you?” 

Famine had been another desperate attempt to get Sammy back, another glaring failure on a list of similar misadventures, but for once the memory doesn’t even twinge. Dean is far too focused on making sure Cas knows what’s going on. 

He grabs Cas’s jaw, forcing him to look at Dean with strength he did not want to use. “This is like that, Cas. What you’re feeling isn’t real. You’ll- you’ll come down in a few hours and—”

“Isn’t real.” Cas interrupts with a hollow laugh. His hands curl into the lapels of Dean’s jacket, his hips grind their bodies together deliberately, their mutual interest readily apparent between them. Blazing blue eyes fill Dean’s vision to drown out everything else. “You think this _isn’t real for me_ just because I swallowed some fucking _pills?_ ” 

He’s angry in a way Dean’s only seen a few times before. The last time, he’d sneaked off and nearly got himself killed. He remembers the fight afterward, their bodies colliding with each other and the walls, but overall he remembers Cas’s _face_ , desperate and frightened despite the rage in his words.

The same ghost of despair and fear is riding shotgun in Cas’s head today, the same angry buzz is in his words, and Dean can’t stand that he’s the cause of it. It’s too much. It’s too fucking much. 

Cas shoves himself backward, his hands ripping free from Dean’s clothing as if he hadn’t realized he needed to let go to be free. “ _Fuck_ ,” Cas mutters, shoulders hunched in on himself as he turns away. “Shit.” 

Cold air drags over Dean’s confused body where warmth had been a moment before, and he knows that if he lets Cas go now, he’ll never get him back. It seems they missed the waterfall entirely thanks to the tsunami cresting beneath them and now they’re falling and falling and if Dean hits the ground alone he won’t survive. He isn’t sure Cas will, either, and that thought is worse. It’s unimaginably awful.

He reaches out, his hands catching on the soft fabric of Cas’s sleeve and tugging him back. “Don’t go,” he says, he fucking _pleads_ , “Stay with me, Cas. Don’t go, please. I’m sorry.”

Anything else he was about to babble is cut off when Cas grabs him by the shoulder and physically hauls him, stumbling and swearing, down the hall. He’s vaguely aware of the crowd parting in front of them like the Red Sea, but then they’re at the door and they’re crowding close to one another because neither is willing to step away to let the other through easily. 

Then they’re outside and they’re both waving the concerned security guard away because the _last_ thing they need is that nosy parker up in their business while whatever they’re about to do goes down, and Cas is steering him down the empty street and then abruptly to the left, muttering darkly to himself. 

Dean comes back to earth when his back crashes against brick and Cas’s body crashes against his front a moment later. He notices there’s a fire escape across the alley they’re in, yellow light gleaming from the street light out on the corner, and he’s pretty sure he’s glad that all he can smell right now is Cas.

None of that matters because Cas’s right hand is on his shoulder and his left is cupping his jaw and they’re- oh fuck they’re- Cas’s lips deserve an entire book of revelation on their own. He kisses Dean like he’s fucking dying; he’s demanding and forceful and needy, unpracticed, yet so sinfully _good_ Dean’s not sure he’ll ever recover.

There’s an edge of uncertainty, too, sliding around and through the heat and threatening to put it out. Dean puts an end to that shit by wrapping his arms up behind Cas’s shoulders and yanking him closer by his hair. Dean smashes their faces together without hesitation, lips slick, teeth biting and dragging, and breath coming sharp and quick. 

It’d be hot as fuck even if it weren’t Cas he’s kissing, but it _is_ , isn’t it? It is Cas, and it’s Cas making content noises every time their tongues touch, and it’s Cas’s hands on his ass grinding their hips together, and it’s Cas’s back his fingernails are raking down, desperate for purchase as fantasy and reality twist together. 

Their mouths drift apart. Dean makes an unintelligible noise of protest, but then there’s hot breath on his throat, Cas’s mouth wet and soft along his jaw, sucking and licking like Dean’s the most delectable candy he’s ever tasted. His teeth graze Dean’s ear lobe and tug gently. Dean whimpers in response, and Cas _growls_.

Cas’s mouth slides down to suck at his collarbone. his stubble and lips are in sharp contrast to one another and the combination is waging total assault on every last one of Dean’s fraying senses. Cas’s hands circle his hips, push aside his jacket and flannel, tug his T-shirt out of his pants and start fumbling at his belt. 

Dean’s head rolls back against the wall, one hand gripping Cas’s shoulder, the other scrabbling across the bricks, looking for purchase and finding none. He reaches for Cas instead, fingers combing through his hair, and every strand crossing his fingers is like silk.

Dean gets an idea and tightens his grip, tugging with just enough pressure to be noticed. Cas groans into the hollow at the base of his throat and the hand working at Dean’s belt loses its purchase and skids downward, crossing the front of his jeans before getting snatched away.

 _“Cas_ ,” Dean whines, suddenly agonizingly aware that his cock is so hard it fucking hurts, and every nerve in his body is vibrating like a plucked bowstring.

He looks down at Cas to find he’s already looking up, tongue between his lips as he studies Dean’s face. “Is this okay?” Cas breathes. He holds himself away so Dean can see his hand hovering, just inches from Dean’s jeans.

Dean nods frantically, rolling his hips up like that’s going to make a single bit of difference when Cas’s other hand is pinning his back to the wall, and that’s when he realizes Cas’s pants are tented as well. His brain goes into overload trying to imagine what's beneath that thin layer of fabric.

Cas grins, a flash of white in the gloom, and cups his entire hand around Dean’s junk, pushing in and up, squeezing gently in some rhythm only he knows. His eyes never leave Dean’s face. 

Dean makes an inhuman noise, his eyes squeezing shut. “Fuck,” he pants. “Fuck, fuck, fuckfuck _fuck_ —” if Cas keeps that up he’s going to lose it. He can already feel himself tensing up, pressure building too fast. 

“Not now. Not out here,” Cas says, sounding smug. “I would like to try something, though.”

Dean’s mind goes on a little detour through the dark promise of that simple statement. Him bent over Baby’s hood with Cas behind him, both bathed in moonlight. Him pushing Cas onto a bed in some abandoned house before they’ve even had a chance to wipe the Crote crud off. Cas’s hand over his mouth in the panic room because if he makes a sound, Bobby will kick both their asses straight through the Apocalypse and into the next century. More, an endless stream of scenes and thoughts. They’re utterly filthy, all of them, the deepest depths of his dirtiest fantasies, yet suddenly they no longer seem so impossible.

“Anything. Fucking anything,” Dean gasps, and maybe he should think about that a little more, but this is Cas, this is an _angel_ , this is the person that saved his sorry ass again and again and a-fucking-gain and Dean supposes if he can’t trust _Cas_ with his body, with—with his heart, then who the fuck can he trust? 

Cas’s smile gets wide like the Cheshire cat and a second later he’s dropping to his knees on the pavement and opening Dean’s pants with the same precise care he does anything. His intent is obvious now and holy shit this is an absolutely fantastic fucking idea, why haven’t they done this before, anyway? 

Cas pushes Dean’s pants and underwear down around his hips, pulling his cock and balls free as he does. The cold brick against Dean’s ass is oddly pleasant. The sight of Cas kneeling in front of him with his face flushed pink and his hair in disarray is incredible, however, the reality so, so much better than any dream vision Dean has ever furtively jerked off to in a hotel bathroom.

“You sure about this?” Dean asks.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Cas replies. 

The next second his mouth is around Dean’s cock, hot and wet and so fucking _good_ that Dean can’t help the strangled yelp that erupts from his chest. Cas pushes closer, then pulls away, experimenting with angle and pressure and speed, his tongue sliding up and down every bit of skin he can reach until he finds the combination that has Dean clutching at him, low gasps and groans and filthy encouragement filling the air around them.

Soon Cas starts using his hands as well, one splayed over Dean’s thigh, the other wrapping around the base of Dean’s shaft and sliding up and down in time with his mouth, giving perfect pressure from head to root with every stroke. 

Dean stares down at Cas, transfixed by the feel of his mouth and hands, the sweat on his brow, the blue of his eyes when he looks up to meet Dean’s gaze. “Cas,” Dean whimpers brokenly through cascading pleasure, stroking his hands over and through Cas’s hair because he’s utterly incapable of doing anything else. _Breathe_ , he reminds himself. _Air is important._

“Cas, I’m—” 

Cas’s free hand slides up the inside of his thigh and caresses his balls. Then his hand shifts and his knuckle digs upward into the soft skin behind, rocking in surprisingly practiced circles, and everything Cas is doing with his mouth is suddenly even more intense, heat and tension pooling thicker and thicker in Dean’s core.

Dean wonders in a scattered, dazed way, exactly how much porn Cas has watched. _Maybe this is what he does to himself when he’s alone._ “Holy _fuck_ ,” Dean cries, the thought suddenly catapulting him to orgasm. His body bows over Cas from the force of it, clinging for balance as he fucking explodes.

He’s come while rolling before, but nothing like this. Before he would have said it’s a decent enough experience, but this time...he’s pretty sure he just met God and every single one of heaven’s angels, and found all of them lacking but one. White lights dance in his vision, and his overloaded brain starts to feel in colors for a bit, twisting spirals and fanciful mandalas dancing behind his eyelids as his body shudders through release.

Cas takes it without complaint, reaching up to wrap his arms around Dean’s hips and hold him in place, his throat working as he swallows again and again around Dean’s cock.Then he pulls away, gently guiding him down until they’re facing each other on the dirty pavement in no-name back street America.

Dean grabs at Cas, yanking him forward so fast that he stumbles, even on his knees, and lands against Dean’s chest with a surprised exclamation. Dean just ducks his head down, his lips exploring skin until he finds Cas’s mouth and can kiss him again. He tastes like sex, bitter and salty, but Dean doesn’t care. 

They kiss until Dean’s legs start to go numb. Then they stand, Dean cursing as he tries to get his clothes in order while also dancing on tingling feet. Once he’s moderately decent, he steps into Cas’s bubble again, as close as Cas has ever stood to him in the past. 

Cas looks at him, blue eyes puzzled, and Dean runs a thumb over his cheek. “We’re going back to the hotel,” he says, “and I’m going to make you feel so damn good, Cas.” 

“I don’t need—” Dean lifts both eyebrows and Cas cuts himself off. “You don’t have to,” Cas amends. 

“You think I went along with that for the hell of it, Cas? You think, what, I’m gonna Joe Buck you in a dirty alley and then what? _Adios,_ thanks for the service?” Dean demands, his voice challenging. 

“It’s not like that, Dean.” 

Dean hasn’t stopped touching Cas’s face, he realizes, and Cas hasn’t tried to pull away. “It would be exactly like that. _No gracias, ojos de cielo_. You deserve better. Come on.” 

Cas’s head tilts, his eyes narrowing. “Heaven eyes?” He asks, seeming genuinely confused.

Dean laughs, turning toward the mouth of the alley and pulling Cas after him. “Don’t know if you noticed, but you got eyes like the sky, sunshine.” Somehow it’s easier to say it when he’s not staring into Cas’s face. 

“Okay,” Cas says after a long silence. When he continues, his voice is lower. “I would like that. What you said before about feeling good.”

“You will,” Dean replies with cocky certainty, but inside he’s all sparks and vibration, soaring higher than the fucking moon.

“Eyes like the sky,” Cas repeats, a few streets later. “That’s almost romantic, you know. Especially in Spanish.” He starts giggling like it’s the most hilarious thing in the world, and somehow _that_ is what breaks the tension. That’s what lets them stumble and laugh the mile and half back to their cheap hotel without incident or awkward silences. 

When they get there, Dean’s gaze sweeps the small room, the same as he always does. It’s a fucking mess, far worse than he left it; there are dents in the walls, weapons piled on the counter, and pill bottles of every variety in a jumble on the table. 

“Dude, what’s with the pharmacy...and the arsenal?” 

Cas turns to face him, eyes wide and desperate. “Later,” he says, “I’ll explain later.” 

Dean frowns, studying Cas’s face, but then Cas kisses him and Dean’s eyes flutter shut as ecstasy-magnified sensation slams through him all over again. 

“Cheater,” Dean says, feeling his face split into the kind of shit-eating grin that always gets him in trouble. “Something else I gotta do now anyway.” Cas stumbles when Dean pushes him backward, then catches himself and goes easily, his eyes big and his mouth desperate on Dean’s.

Dean steps back as they approach the bed, but only as far as he must to unlace his boots and kick them off, to wiggle out of the rest of his clothes with practiced efficiency. When he looks up, Cas is already on the bed, sprawled out with his head propped on a pillow as he watches Dean undress. 

“Would we be here if you were sober?” Cas asks as Dean crawls up the bed toward him. 

Dean shrugs, leaning down to kiss the hip bone peaking out between Cas’s shirt and pants. “No.”

“Then we shouldn’t—” 

“Too much of a scared jackass to try,” Dean says between light kisses to soft skin, his nose nudging the shirt upward. “I can’t face this fight without you, Cas. Better to die wanting what I can’t have than lose what I’ve already got, so I just...kept on.” 

“ _Dean._ ” Cas wrestles him up the mattress and then they’re trading kisses that can last as long as they want, now they’re somewhere private and warm. Dean loses himself in velvet and silk, wet heat, smooth skin, the burn of stubble against sensitive skin and the dark, spicy scent of _Cas_.

His hands drift of their own accord as they kiss, exploring Cas’s body with excited curiosity now that he finally has the right to do so. He’s quick to tug the shirt off and Cas is just as quick to let him. Dean’s fingers trace defined muscle once it is revealed, reveling in every inch of skin. He tweaks the nipple he can reach just to hear Cas’s choked back yelp, then again, this time rolling it back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. 

Lower he goes, all too aware of Cas’s breath quickening, the trembling tension in the softness of his belly when Dean strokes the same hipbone he’d kissed before, then follows the sharp line down until his fingers slip under Cas’s pants.

It’s easy enough to carefully lift that drawstring waistband over Cas’s swollen cock, to push the fabric down until Cas kicks his legs free of it. Then they’re stretched next to each other on the cheap sheets, skin to skin and hearts pounding in wild counter rhythm to each other, and Dean’s never been more exhilarated in his entire damn life. 

Dean had planned on seducing Cas slowly, to take him apart, bit by bit, until he blows so hard he’s unlikely to forget it no matter how many eons he continues to live. It’s still tempting, but Cas is already panting, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like Enochian beneath his breath. His cock is thick and pink, rising from a nest of dark hair, and there’s a gleam at the tip that shows exactly how worked up Cas is.

Dean rolls Cas on his back and settles between his knees, looking down at him with a crooked smile. “Hold tight, sweetheart,” he says. Then he folds downward, his mouth taking Cas’s length in one smooth movement. He _sucks_ as he pulls back up and away, then does it again. And again. His tongue slides along the underside of Cas’s cock, curls into the sensitive spot just below the head. 

Cas cries out and throws his head back at the first touch, then falls into a gasping, moaning garble that Dean can only understand a little of. Most of it is his name and some variant of _fuck_ , though there is the occasionally “like that, yes, yes” that stokes the fire inside him even higher. 

Cas can’t seem to decide what to do with his hands, so Dean reaches up, grabs them, guides them to the back of his head, urges him to push and pull as he needs.

“I could hurt you,” Cas manages to get out, his eyes wild, pupils even darker than they had been at the club as he stares over his naked body to where Dean is sloppily licking his cock. 

“Nah,” Dean says. “This ain’t my first rodeo; I know what I can handle.” This time when he goes down he keeps going until his nose is buried in dark hair and Cas’s cock is cutting off his air. He swallows to prove his point and Cas _keens._

Satisfied, Dean pulls himself back up and grins. He knows his lips are pink and swollen and there’s spit down his chin, and does nothing to hide it. 

Cas stares at him in visible shock, his chest heaving. He doesn’t speak, but he does pointedly drag his nails up Dean’s neck and over the back of his head. Then he yanks at Dean’s hair, his hands moving in rhythmic waves that short circuits every thought in Dean’s mind. His eyes roll back in his head and he forgets what he’s doing, mouth hanging open as he gets lost in the movement and touch and _reality_ of what is happening to him. 

“Next time,” Cas says when Dean finally gets his wits back together. “Next time I will fucking _defile_ your mouth if that’s what you want.” 

“Holy shit,” Dean gasps, abruptly ready to blow all over again. 

Cas’s lips twitch up a little and his grip loosens ever so slightly. 

“But this time I want,” Cas swallows. “ _I_ want you to give—not for me to take,” he whispers finally. “Please, Dean.” There’s a world of feeling there that Dean’s not at all ready to explore, not when his dick could cut diamond and and he has the salty taste of Cas’s precum in his mouth.

“As you wish,” he says instead, low and breathy. Cas won’t get the reference, but it doesn’t matter. It’s the thought that counts, and Dean is going to make damn sure it counts _good_. 

When he takes Cas’s length in his mouth again he opts for slow and erotic, making a visual show of giving Cas every scrap of pleasure he deserves and more besides. He’s gentle but insistent, tuning into every twitch and moan from his partner, chasing them down and magnifying them with mouth and hands until Cas is chanting his name again, only this time out loud, interspersed with profanity Dean is quite sure no one has ever heard spill from an angel’s lips. 

Cas abruptly shoves himself upward on one elbow, his other hand clapping down on the scar emblazoned on Dean’s bare shoulder. There’s no electrical surge this time, no change in anything other than Cas’s rocking hips abruptly stuttering to a halt and arching upward. The connection _does something_ to Cas, however, because he comes so hard Dean chokes on it, coughing and gagging, then licking and sucking to clean up the mess. His hand remains clapped to Dean’s shoulder through the whole thing, his fingers curling so hard that Dean knows he’ll have crescent-shaped bruises the next day.

Dean continues to mouth at Cas’s softening dick as he jerks himself off, his hand frantic and fast on his dick. Cas twitches and gasps beneath him, oversensitive yet clearly enjoying the ride, and Dean can’t get enough of it. It isn’t more than a minute or two before Dean shatters over the edge again, streaking the sheets and Cas’s thighs with white as he cries “ _Cas_ ” like the name is his only life line to sanity. 

Dean wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, then wipes Cas’s thighs off with a corner of the sheet. Then he clambers up to collapse next to Cas on the pillow.

“You good?” He asks, slinging one arm over Cas’s shoulders. 

Cas turns his head, kisses the shell of Dean’s ear, his breath still coming in sharp puffs. He can’t seem to find words, but Dean’s okay with that because the positive answer is evident in Cas’s touch. 

Neither of them say anything else, but it isn’t an uncomfortable silence. Dean enjoys just touching and being touched by Cas, reveling in the magnified senses that allow him to feel every caress like a shock to his soul. 

It shouldn’t be possible, not with the drugs pumping in his veins, but Dean drifts to sleep an hour or two later, his head pressed against Cas’s chest and his arms around Cas’s waist. 

When he wakes the next morning, it’s to find Cas sprawled out beside him, eyes closed and breath even in sleep. They’re still butt naked, limbs intertwined, and Dean fights the instinctive urge to get up and leave. What good would that do now? None, that’s what.

It seems even his smallest movements are enough to rouse Cas, however, because he grunts and makes a noise of protest. 

“Mornin’ sunshine,” Dean whispers. He feels Cas go tense, then slowly relax, muscle by muscle. 

“Good morning, Dean,” Cas says.

Dean doodles a line on Cas’s arm with his finger. “You thought I’d leave.”

“I thought you would have regrets.”

“Do you?”

Cas rolls onto his back and puts one arm behind his head, staring up at the ceiling as if it contains the answers to the universe. “I thought I knew what to expect from physical intimacy,” he says, “I was very wrong.”

Dean laughs unsteadily at this implicit confirmation of something he’d already suspected about Cas’s sexual history. “It’s not always like that,” he admits. “I’m assuming you took the same shit I did, yeah, or something similar? Even the worst sex gets jacked to a fifteen when you’re rolling. Hell of an intro to human relations, I gotta say.”

“That was _not_ the worst sex, with or without pharmaceutical assistance,” Cas says with utter certainty. 

Dean snorts. “Thanks a bunch.”

There’s another pause, then Cas shifts uncomfortably, reaching for the blanket and pulling it up to their chins.

“Thought angels didn’t get cold. Or sleep, for that matter.”

It’s meant to be a mild tease, but Cas tenses up and licks his lips. “They don’t,” he says. 

“So why the snuggle fest?” Dean asks, shrugging his shoulder to indicate the covers. 

The silence stretches, pregnant with some impending doom that he wishes he hadn’t disturbed. If he’d kept his fat mouth shut, maybe their pleasant little bubble could have continued forever, but no he just had to go poking around into trouble.

When Cas turns to face him, his shoulders are stiff, his face closed off and far too serious. “My grace is gone,” he says, and the loss in his voice is so strong, so _fresh_ , that Dean can’t believe Cas isn’t drowning in tears. “I’m no angel, Dean; not anymore.”

“How long?” Dean asks, numb.

Cas closes his eyes. “I think my brethren are...as you would say, ‘fucking off to nowhere.’ I haven’t heard anything on angel radio in days now, anyway. And then yesterday, my grace just…” he raises his arm, making an abortive reaching gesture before letting his arm fall back to the blanket, palm open and empty. “This vessel is all I am, now.”

There are a lot of things Dean wants to say, and he’s certain none of them are the right thing. What comes out is simple and sharp, betrayal tinging every syllable. “And you didn’t _tell me?_ ” 

“I wasn’t ready,” Cas says, his voice gravelly and broken, “I needed to—pretend—for a little while longer.”

And okay. Okay, Dean can get that. He’d gone out last night because he needed to forget that Lucifer is wearing his brother to the prom, after all. Also to forget there’s a nasty-ass hell virus out there that’s gonna take out the entire damn planet if Dean doesn’t come up with a plan sometime soon, that most of Dean’s friends are already dead, and that Dean himself hasn’t slept more than an hour or two at once since the day he told Sam to take a walk. 

That doesn’t make it hurt any less that Cas had done all _that_ with him, sans grace, and never said a word, but shit. It’s not like he’d thrown up the prayer flare the second Sammy went Dark Side, right? People do stupid shit when they’re hurt. Always have, always will.

“I know I’m a liability now,” Cas is saying when Dean checks back into the present. “I will find a place to live soon so I’m not putting you in danger. I can—”

If Cas leaves, Cas will die. Probably sooner than later, driven to extremes by grief. It’s that simple, Dean knows from his own experience. The thought is utterly unbearable. 

“Fuck that,” he snaps.

“It’s best for everyone if I go and you know it.” 

Dean surges up and over until he’s lying on top of Cas, his forearms framing Cas’s face. “Don’t,” he says, leaning down to press his lips against Cas’s forehead, a brief flutter of care and promise. “Don’t leave.” Cas doesn’t move, so Dean pulls away far enough to meet his eyes. They’re blue, blue, so fucking blue. He can’t bear the thought of losing those, too. 

Cas stays stiff and silent for so long that Dean starts to squirm uncomfortably.

“I would endanger your mission,” Cas says finally. “I don’t even know how to use most human weapons.” 

“Then I’ll teach you to use a shotgun, for fuck’s sake, or you can exorcise the demons and I can fight the crotes. Just _stay with me_ , Cas.”

Dean can feel the exact moment Cas gives in. His body goes pliant and soft beneath Dean’s, his arms sliding up to press them closer together.

“I’m yours, Dean.” Cas says. “Whatever you want, to the bitter end. I’ll be here.”

Their kiss is unexpectedly salty, yet somehow just as sweet in the sober light of day as it had been the night before.

**Author's Note:**

> So I googled "Spanish terms of endearment" for this fic, and was delighted to find ojos de ciel (eyes like the sky / heavens eyes) on the very first list I clicked on. You're welcome.


End file.
